


Let's Go Dutch

by lightsaroundyourvanity



Category: RWBY
Genre: Atlas - Freeform, Date Night, F/F, HAPPY 6/9 FAM!!!, Post-Volume 6 (RWBY), Public Sex, porn but make it tender, very very very light bondage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-23 20:08:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19158085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightsaroundyourvanity/pseuds/lightsaroundyourvanity
Summary: “You really do look seriously hot tonight,” says Yang. “Maybe we should skip dinner after all. Go straight to dessert.”“Oh yeah?” Blake leans in. “What’s dessert?”“Pussy.”





	Let's Go Dutch

Yang finishes pinning up her hair and wrinkles her nose in the mirror. She tugs on a strand of hair, winds it around her finger, and pulls it loose to frame her face. There. Now she looked perfect. Yang turns away from the mirror. She runs her hand over the yellow metal of her forearm. It is bared, and strikingly obvious, against the sleeveless halter neckline of her dress.

There was a time, not so long ago, when Yang had worried that she’d never want to bare her arms again. There was too much hurt, too much shame. That time feels foreign now. 

“You look beautiful.”

Yang yelps and spins around. She sees Blake framed in the doorway, and her brain collapses into mush. Where Yang opts for flirty when she dresses up, Blake goes for slink, and it _works._ Does it ever work. What Blake is wearing now is black and clingy and has a slit up one side that Yang finds her eyes tracing the line of, all the way to where it stops midway up Blake’s thigh. Suddenly, and vividly, Yang wants to slide her thumb between the cut in the fabric, feel Blake’s skin. She wants to press her mouth to the hollow of Blake’s throat, feel her pulse. She wants to… 

Yang gets a hold of herself. She feels Blake watching her anyway, knowing and pleased and smug. Instead of blushing (maybe while blushing), Yang looks directly at Blake and grins. Blake doesn’t look away. Her smirk breaks into a smile, and it’s a long beat before Yang realizes that they are both just standing there, smiling at each other like dopes.

“You were supposed to wait for me to pick you up,” Yang says pointedly. 

Blake raises an eyebrow. “What, down the hall? I got impatient.”

“You look fantastic.” 

“So do you.”

“You already said that.” 

And finally, Blake blushes, and internally, Yang glows. Yang never thought of herself as someone who flustered easily before, but Blake can bowl her over just by breathing. It’s satisfying (and thrilling) when she can return the favour.

More thrilling still, that Yang can cross the room to Blake now, and hold her hand, and feel Blake’s fingers twine between her own. They’ve been so in synch since coming to Atlas, so emotionally-and-physically in touch, and Yang never stops feeling lucky for it. Home, whole, chosen, safe, together, whatever. Yang’s soul lights up when she’s with Blake. She leans over and kisses Blake, to feel Blake smile underneath her lips, to hear the tiny sigh that slips through them.

Blake’s hand slides up to rest on Yang’s cheek, and she presses the kiss deeper, opens her mouth against Yang’s. Again, Yang becomes something like mush. She yearns towards Blake, and she wants and she wants and she wants.

It’s ruefully that Yang breaks away. She feels Blake’s fingertips trail away from her face, and mourns them. “We should go,” Yang admits.

“Right. Reservations.” Blake sounds a tiny bit breathless, which makes Yang internally crow.

“We don’t want to miss it. Weiss said this place was like, fancy or whatever,” says Yang.

“And they’re letting you in?”

Yang makes a face. “Ha ha. I clean up nice. And besides, we’re friends with the Schnees.”

“We’re friends with _a_ Schnee,” Blake replies. 

“Thank god. One is more than enough.” Yang grins. “I’m glad we got the good one.”

Blake puts her hands on her hips in mock outrage. “Maybe you should be taking Weiss out.”

“But then what would you do all night?” Yang asks.

“I have books.” 

Yang snorts. She wraps her arm around Blake’s waist and angles her towards the door. “Good thing I’m going out with you, then. Someone has to save you from yourself.”

 

\--

 

The place Weiss has suggested was even fancier than Yang expected. There’s a hush to the diners, like they don’t want to spook the money. Yang can hear the gentle clink of every fork meeting every plate and the obsequious questions of the servers all the way from the entryway where she stands with Blake. 

Yang feels suddenly out of place: too brash, too loud, too much of a literal bull in a china shop. Her hair fights to escape its pins. Her arm flashes like a gaudy weapon. She wonders why she thought this was a good idea, gathers her heart and her sleeves, pulls up a sock, prepares to turn the brighter cheek, but then 

Blake takes her hand without a word, and Yang glances over and feels a hot, sudden rush of love. Blake walks that perfect line with her, between knowing exactly what she is thinking and exactly how to comment on it unobtrusively. She’s not alone. These are the spoils that come from the agonizing vulnerability of being open, of being known, of being loved. Yang knows she doesn’t have nerve endings in that arm anymore, but she swears she can feel Blake’s palm pressed against her own. Yang squeezes Blake’s hand, gently, and Blake smiles.  Yang feels her edgy worry start to bleed away.

It’s Blake who speaks to the hostess, finds their reservation, weaves her way through the restaurant to their table and pulls Yang’s chair out for her. It’s Yang who follows, Blake’s hand still holding hers tightly and leading her through the room. When Blake pulls out the chair, Yang cracks up.

“Just who is taking who out here?” Yang asks.

Blake looks at her with a wide-eyed, guileless expression. “I thought we were taking each other out.” 

Yang laughs again and takes the offered seat.

“I always forget that you grew up rich,” Yang says when Blake is settled next to her. Underneath the table, their knees angle towards one another.

“What do you mean?”

Yang shrugs. “You just seem used to all this.”

It’s Blake’s turn to look uncomfortable. “Well we… we didn’t grow up with _all this_ exactly. We were comfortable.” 

“Fabulously wealthy.”

“Most of our resources went to helping the White Fang. And after my parents split ways with them, I…”

Yang sees Blake’s face fall, and winces. Of course Blake didn’t grow up with servants and elegance. After Adam, she hadn’t even grown up with parents.

“Sorry,” says Yang. “Me and my big mouth.”

“I still like your mouth.” 

Yang brightens. “You’ll like it even more later, when I—”

“Still in public!” Blake is blushing again.

Yang giggles. Underneath the table, her foot finds Blake’s and rubs, hooks around Blake’s ankle, starts the torturous slide up Blake’s calf until Blake’s cheeks are so pink that she glows.

“Yang…” The edges of Blake’s voice have turned rough.

Yang leans forward and rests her chin in her hands. She sees Blake’s eyes dart towards the plunging neckline of her dress. Her lips part, and Yang savours the energy of it, the longing, the heat. “You really do look seriously hot tonight,” says Yang. “Maybe we should skip dinner after all. Go straight to dessert.”

“Oh yeah?” Blake leans in. “What’s dessert?” 

“Pussy.”

“ _Yang!_ ” Blake sounds half scandalized, half bubbling over with laughter. Emotions all the way down. Or maybe it has something to do with Yang’s foot, and the torturous way she’s running it higher up Blake’s leg.

“Not a fan?” asks Yang. “Because it sure seemed like—”

“Would the mademoiselles like to start with a drink?”

The cold shock of the server arriving makes Yang jerk back in her chair, wide eyed and dizzy. “Uh….” She trails off stupidly, looks towards Blake.

And if Yang thinks that Blake, beautiful, thunderstruck Blake, would crumble under lust and surprise and pressure, well, Yang would be in for a surprise – because Blake sits up straight in her chair and looks their austere, tuxedo clad server right in the eye. “I’ll have a whiskey sour,” she says coolly. “Yang, anything for you?”

“Uh….” Yang says again. This time, it has nothing to do with surprise – or maybe everything to do with it. While Blake orders her drink, her hand finds its way to Yang’s knee underneath the table, her sweetest revenge, fingertips gliding over cool satin until Yang presses her thighs together and swallows. “Uh. I’ll get a Mistral. Rye, and neat.” Yang doesn’t even bother looking at the waiter. Blake’s hand continues to roam, and Yang considers the myriad of meanings of _coming undone._

“Very good, mademoiselle.”

He leaves, and Blake’s sights alight back on Yang. She smirks.

Yang’s head is buzzing. Her heart is buzzing. Her…

Shit. 

Blake’s smile grows, slow and hungry, and she skims the curve of Yang’s inner thigh and squeezes, continues to explore until she’s touching places that would have Yang panting if they had been anywhere, anywhere else.

“You’re a real tease, Belladonna,” says Yang.

“Who, me?” Blake gives Yang a wide, innocent look that’s strongly at odds with the dance her fingertips are playing out underneath the table. “I told you, I keep my promises.”

“Prove it.”

Before Blake can do anything – react or protest or even catch her breath, Yang surges forward and kisses Blake, hard, on the mouth. She swallows Blake’s gasp of surprise and lets it nourish her. She keeps their foreheads, their lips close together, lets the dark-and-blonde strands of their hair intertwine. “Go to the bathroom. Take off your panties. I’ll meet you there in five minutes.”

As quickly as she arrived, Yang leans back in her chair and looks at Blake, expectant. And _Blake –_ Blake looks stunned. Bowled over. Still, the first words out of her mouth are: “You’re fucking lucky that your hair didn’t catch fire on the candles just now.”

Yang just holds up her hand, fingers spread. “Five minutes.”

The laughter dies from Blake’s eyes. The passion stays. She looks Yang over for one long, long moment, and then licks her lips and nods. Without another word, she scoots back in her chair, stands, and stumbles towards the bathroom. Even cuntstruck and dazed, the twitch of her hips is one of the sexiest things that Yang has ever seen.

The first two minutes of waiting are torture. The third, the waiter brings out their drinks, and Yang distracts herself by downing half of hers in one swallow. The liquor burns down her throat and strengthens her courage, and now she’s thinking about Blake, wondering what Blake is doing in the bathroom, if she’s as keyed up as Yang is, if she actually took off her underwear. The _thought_ of that sends a bolt of heat shooting through Yang, and she presses her thighs together again under the table, wonders how everyone in the room hasn’t noticed her flush, the desperate, horny waves that are radiating off of her.

Four minutes, and Yang starts to tap her feet impatiently. Will Blake be patient? Will Blake be waiting for her? Will Blake be ready for her?

Yang know that answer the everything will unerringly be _yes._ She and Blake are tied together in some true, indelible way, and it’s not just about the sparks between them anymore – it’s the trust, the longing. The love. Somehow, that turns Yang on more than fingers up her cunt ever could. 

Five minutes. Yang takes a deep breath, stands up, and starts the long walk to the bathroom. 

 _Long_ is an understatement. The stretch of parquet floor is endless. Yang taps across it and feels like the eyes of every diner is on her.

When she steps into the bathroom, it strikes Yang again how deeply _fancy_ this restaurant is. This is an honest to god _powder room,_ round padded stools in front of vanities, and on the far end of the room – a fainting couch. And sitting on the couch, equal parts wicked and demure – Blake. She sits with one leg crossed, her elbow propped on the arm of the couch, a scrap of black lace dangling from one fingertip. When she sees Yang, she uncrosses her legs. Her knees part, and her lips part, and Yang sucks in a breath. Her eyes dart between Blake’s underwear in her hand and the shadowed, unrestrained space between her thighs. Yang thinks that she could tremble. She thinks that she can smell Blake from across the room, thinks again that it’s the wave of her own longing. She leans back against the door. 

“Are you just going to stand there, or are you planning to fuck me?” Blake asks. It cuts through the haze, and Yang swallows, hard.

“Who said anything about fucking you?” Yang asks. She twists a strand of hair around one fingers and smirks. Her other hand scrambles for the lock, twists it left, feels it click.

Blake makes a strangled noise. “ _Yang_ ,” she says, low, insistent. “I’m so wet right now. You don’t want to feel it?”

Yang doesn’t budge. She wonders how long she can hold out, make Blake wait. “I—”

“ _I_ want to feel it,” Blake interrupts. Her legs spread wider, and she dips her hand between her thighs, sighs as she touches herself. “So wet,” she murmurs again. “God, Yang, just looking at you, you make me... so wet.” 

Yang cracks then. Hearing Blake’s soft whimper, the way she bites her lip, sets off the raw pulse of a heartbeat in Yang’s cunt. She crosses the room in long strides and bends over Blake. She braces her palms on the back of the couch, one hand on either side of Blake, leans closer until their foreheads nearly touch. “Tell me,” she says softly. “Tell me how wet I make you.” 

Instead of answering, Blake moans, and Yang crushes their mouths together and swallows it. She falls forward until she lands, on her knees, between Blake’s thighs, hungry kisses tracing fire all the way down until it’s Blake who yearns towards Yang, who cups Yang’s face in her hands, two fingers wet and hot from touching her own clit. Yang breaks their kiss to turn her head and takes them both into her mouth, sucks the taste of Blake off of her own skin, and when Blake’s fingertips linger on the swell of Yang’s lower lip, she kisses each one, a whisper, a graze. 

“You taste wet,” Yang says, “And incredible.”

All of Blake’s finger bunch then, to grab onto Yang’s chin and drag it up to her mouth. Yang kisses Blake in a fever, a daze. She climbs onto the couch and straddles Blake, feels her panties press against the weave of Blake’s skirt (and beneath that, nothing at all, Yang remembers with a sharp spurt of desire). She grinds down on Blake’s lap, and Blake whimpers, and Blake moans, as loud and as telling as the hungry arch of her spine.

“Shh,” Yang mumbles against Blake’s lips. “They’ll hear us outside.”

“Hard enough being sat at the table by the bathroom door,” Blake agrees. “On top of that, to have to—to— _oh!”_ Blake breaks off in a sharp gasp when Yang’s hand closes around her breast, when she pinches her nipple through the silky cloth of her dress. And then there are no more comments, no more jibes, only more kisses, more writhing, more moans, more _moans—_

“What did I just tell you?” Yang asks.

“When you touch me like that—”

“Baby, if you think that’s too much, then you have no idea what you’re in for.”

“ _Yang!_ ”

Blake cries out Yang’s name, and Yang feels it ripple through her blood, through her heartstrings, through her cunt. Her thighs tighten around Blake’s, a reflex of lust, and Blake’s hips buck in response. Yang kisses the side of Blake’s neck and sucks a bruise onto her skin, still sunbrowned and warm even after weeks of the weak, wintry Atlas sun. Yang kisses Blake’s collarbone and lets her teeth scrape against the delicate bone, and the noise Blake makes is so loud and artless that Yang both feels her knees turn to jelly and looks over her shoulder towards the door in alarm. 

“Yang...” Blake whines, lost at the loss of Yang’s mouth.

Yang looks back at Blake and grins. She doesn’t know how she’s stringing the thoughts together, with Blake looking so wrecked underneath her, but still she says, “We can’t get kicked out before we’ve even had our drinks.”

“Fuck the drinks.” Blake rolls her hips, drawing Yang closer to the edge of sanity all over again. “Fuck _me._ ”

“You’ve got a real mouth on you tonight.” 

“You have no idea.” Blake cups Yang’s cheek, tilts Yang’s chin towards her own. “Do you want to find out?”

“Yes,” Yang breathes. Her eyes skitter towards Blake’s other hand, still clutching her own underwear. “But I need you to stay quiet for a little while first.”

And as quickly as she had the idea, Yang snatches Blake’s panties away from her, wads them into a ball, and stuffs them into Blake’s open mouth. Blake makes a sharp noise –surprised, aroused—but it’s muffled. Effective.

Yang smirks. “And you said stealth wasn’t my strong suit. Lie back, baby.” 

Blake’s head drops back, and her knees part. Her eyes follow Yang, glowing and golden and intense, as Yang slides her hand between Blake’s legs, slides two fingers inside Blake’s cunt, and curls them. Blake moans again, loud even through the gag, and Yang pulls out of her and slaps the inside of Blake’s thigh, and Blake whines, as much from pleasure as from the sting.

“I told you to stay quiet,” Yang growls, and then thrusts into Blake again, two fingers quickly becoming three, pumping in time to the jerks of Blake’s hips. Blake gasps out a strangled noise, a plea, a desperate attempt-and-failure to stay silent, and Yang presses her free hand against the base of Blake’s throat like a warning, like a promise, like something just short of a caress. Blake pants, and she squirms, overwhelmed and looking for release outside of her voice, and Yang fucks her harder, brings her lips close to Blake’s ear.

“Come for me, Blake,” she whispers. “Come for me right now.”

Yang’s hand tightens around Blake’s throat after she says this, and Blake cants until its frenzied, until she’s fucking herself on Yang as much as Yang is fucking her, and Yang’s chin drops against Blake shoulder. She feels Blake’s body build, and build, and build, until she shudders, and crests, and comes, silent pants giving way to a cry of release and sensation and... love. And Yang slows her pace, eases her fingers out of Blake, is pressed so close to Blake that she can feel her heartbeat thump and thump and recede.

“ _Fuck,”_ Blake breathes after a moment. The words are garbled, all but lost around her own panties still gagging her.

“Oh, are you done?” Yang asks, as lightly as her rapidly firing synapses will allow her. “I’m not.”

Yang slides down Blake’s body until she’s on the ground again, on her knees, settled between Blake’s legs. She runs her hands up Blake’s thighs, feels the tender muscles still twitching just a little. But Blake spreads her legs again, and invitation that Yang accepts. She dips her head between Blake’s thighs and licks her clit, softly, gently, testing, teasing. Blake lets out a tiny sigh. Yang’s tongue darts out again, still teasing, licking around Blake’s clit, between the lips of her pussy, making shallow, torturous strokes at the entrance of Blake’s cunt but never quite going inside, until Blake is ready for her, until Blake is slick and squirming, both hands flying to the back of Yang’s head.

Blake’s hands in Yang’s feel good, tugging lightly, and then not-so-lightly, a prod and a goad, but as she gets more worked up, she starts to push against Yang’s head, ever guiding, and then demanding, and Yang thinks ( _this won’t do_ ) so she pries Blake’s hands away from her head, threads their fingers together, and slams Blake’s hands down onto the seat of the couch at her sides. Yang squeezes Blake’s hands in hers and licks her clit again, a stroke of broad, flat purpose that makes Blake buck with pleasure. 

Yang eats Blake out with new vigor now, sucks her clit, fucks her with her tongue, follows the aching road map of gasps and trembles that Blake is rolling onto the table for her, presses in new pins, new points of interest, new (and old) ways that Yang can lick or touch or push against Blake, that make Blake groan her name and clench her thighs and grind up against Yang’s face. Blake comes a second time, making mewling noises around the gag, blunt nails diggings into the skin of Yang’s hand, thighs spasming as she comes, comes apart, comes undone, jerks twice, wildly, and then sags.

Yang rests her cheek against Blake’s thigh and sighs. She licks her lips, tastes sweet arousal. Blake’s legs are warm, and bare, the folds of her dress long since rucked up around her hips. Yang is buzzing, ready to pop, but she also feels so peaceful here, in the cradle of Blake’s comedown. She could lie in that forever.

“Hey,” Blake says dreamily. Her panties come tumbling from her mouth. They lie spent by her side. “C’mere.” She pulls her hands free and reaches towards Yang. “Let me hold you.”

“Seriously?” asks Yang. Yes, she’s just fucked her girlfriend’s brains out in this space, but something about spooning in a public restroom seems so... intimate. Or too intimate an act. Or whatever. It doesn’t matter, because Blake is a lodestone, and Yang is clambering onto the couch and sliding into Blake’s arms as Blake flops onto her side. Yang is still pretty keyed up, but it’s short moments before Blake’s hands move from running themselves up and down Yang’s arms, to her waist, to her—

 _“Oh!_ ” Yang gasps when Blake’s hands slip under her dress and touch skin, when a fingertip flicks under the edge of her underwear and feels heat. “Blake, please, _please—”_

Blake doesn’t wait, doesn’t tease. She pushes further, until her fingers find Yang’s clit and rub hard circles, and Yang’s worked up enough that it’s exactly what she needs. Her spine arches and she bucks against Blake, panting “ _Yeah, yeah, yeah, unh_ ,” until she comes in shaking waves, pleasure buzzing through her in floods, in a rocking, moaning, life affirming pulse. Blake keeps going until she feels Yang soften against her, tender and spent, panting and wordless, awed and dazed.   

And for a space of time, neither one of them moves, neither one of them speaks. They breathe, and they pant, and they feel the ebb, and the affection and the satisfaction. And they wallow in it. And they refract.

Finally, Yang says, “We should...”

And Blake huffs. “Yeah. We should.”

Still, they lie for longer moments. Finally, Yang nudges herself to her feet, tugs her dress back around her hips and to her knees, and Blake follows suit. They make their ways to the sink and share it as they wash their hands. Yang looks at Blake sidelong, and Blake giggles.

“I love you,” Yang blurts. It’s not her first time saying it. It’s not theirs. But it’s the most laden, the most impulsive.

“I...” Blake’s hands are still under the faucet. Her golden eyes are thoughtful. “I love _you._ ” She says, finally and emphatically. “I _love_ you. I didn’t know this many kinds of love could come together until... you.”

“Blake, that’s so cheesy.”

“Shut up!” Blake turns off the faucet and meets Yang’s eyes. There’s enough adoration there that Blake knows that Yang is teasing, that even if it’s true, she’s just as cheesy, just as gone, just as shook. “You’re terrible,” Blake adds, softly.

Yang leans in, kisses Blake on the lips. “You love it,” she says. 

“I love it,” Blake agrees. She smooths a lock of hair behind Yang’s ear, but it immediately springs loose. “I love _you,_ ” she adds. Emphatically. 

“I love you too,” says Yang. Her grin flashes, crooked. You still wanna grab dinner?” she asks.

Blake brushes by Yang and unlocks the door. She looks back, tosses her hair over her shoulder, and Yang shivers. “After that? I’m starving.”

 

 --

  

Whether its truth or fantasy or anxiety or all three at once, Yang can feel the eyes of every other diner in the room when she and Blake slip out of the bathroom (brazenly _together,_ hand-in-hand) and make their way back to their table. Yang relishes in it, in the just _just fucked_ cant to Blake’s hips, in the twirl of her hair. She relishes it when they meet each other’s eyes and she can still see the embers of lust burning low, can still hear the echoes of Blake’s whimpers fading in and out of her ears.

“Don’t look so smug,” says Blake. “You’ll give us away.”

“Good,” Yang replies. “Everyone _should_ know.” She picks up a butter knife and clinks it against the rim of her glass like she’s about to make a toast. “Attention, attention, I want to thank everyone for coming out tonight... I have just absolutely _railed_ the hottest woman in the room...”

Blake giggles. She wraps her hand around Yang wrist and tugs it away. “This is a _nice_ place,” she says, still smiling.

“I thought we had a _very_ nice time.”

“I thought so too,” Blake admits. Lower, she adds, “You know what was so hot? When you had your hand on my—”

“Madmoiselles? Are you ready to order?” Their server returns. Blake goes red.

Yang fights to hold in a bark of laughter. “Yes,” she manages. “I think we are. Babe?”

Blake murmurs her order to the tablecloth, Yang with a shit eating grin. When the server departs, there’s a strangled moment of silence before Yang breaks the ice 

“When I had my hand on your...?”

“Well I’m not going to finish _now_ ,” Blake hisses.

“But I’m riveted,” Yang presses, teasing. “On the edge of my seat. Was it when I had my hand on your throat? That was pretty hot. Or...” Yang leans forward. Her works take on a lower, huskier tone. “...When I was inside you? That was pretty hot, too.”

“Yang...” Blake’s blush turns dusky. “That _was_ hot.” A beat, and then she adds, “That was _crazy_ hot.” Blake lets out a breath. Her eyes skim over Yang’s skin, heat of remembrance, heat of a promise, heat of longing. “I can’t wait to get you home later.”

“Oh yeah?” Yang starts to feel the buzz of arousal climb up between her thighs again.

“Yeah.” All shades of dissembling have fallen away from Blake now. Her eyes dart to Yang’s mouth, and then lower, lower, knowing. “I can’t wait to taste you.”

“Oh, is that why you ordered the swordfish?” 

“ _Yang!_ ”

Yang grins. And that’s where she always lands with Blake, and that’s how she always likes it, too: Laughing and turned on and smitten. Complementary and surprising and in synch. Black and purple and gold. They fight and they fuck and they win and they lose; they run and they seethe; they brush away soft tears, tears of laughter or of yearning, of anger or passion or relief, sweet and aching. But they will always, always end up here, like it was always meant to be.

“I love you,” says Blake, reading thoughts in Yang’s purple eyes like one of her favourite books, well-thumbed and memorized.

Yang smiles. She knows. Their food comes, and she knows. They’ll walk home together, hand-in-hand, side by side, and she’ll know.

And they’ll take on the world with all the symmetry of a poem – because she knows, she knows, she knows. Fuck Salem, fuck Ozma, fuck the gods – with Blake in her arms and her bed and her heart, Yang knows that she’s unbreakable. She raises her glass, rye and melting ice.

“To us.”

**Author's Note:**

> HAPPY 6/9!!! this is dedicated to the clam fam, my co-conspirators and partners in chaos. I love you guys so much <3


End file.
